


Senses

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Biting, Blood and Violence, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism, Scratching, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ken likes the taste of Chikusa’s blood. Blood in general has an interesting tang, a metallic burn far at the back of his throat whether it’s his or someone else’s, but Chikusa’s in particular is identifiably different, flat and cold as if the liquid itself is lukewarm even in the other’s veins." Ken likes the taste of Chikusa's blood, and Mukuro likes to watch, and Chikusa likes to be watched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Senses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



Ken likes the taste of Chikusa’s blood.

Blood in general has an interesting tang, a metallic burn far at the back of his throat whether it’s his or someone else’s, but Chikusa’s in particular is identifiably different, flat and cold as if the liquid itself is lukewarm even in the other’s veins. Ken doesn’t know if that’s a product of experimentation, or an illusion of his own perception, but regardless of the cause the clear splash of warmth over his tongue always sends a shiver of satisfaction down Ken’s spine.

Chikusa doesn’t fight at all. For how limp the other is lying across the floor he could be unconscious, could be dead if Ken couldn’t smell the thud of his heartbeat in the skin against his nose, couldn’t hear the faint hiss of his breathing. But he doesn’t resist, doesn’t scream, just stays still and passive while Ken shifts his position, bites again so his teeth sink into as-yet-unmarked skin to draw a fresh flood of red over his lips and tongue. Chikusa’s shoulder is stained with color, the stain of blood seeping out to turn the green of his tattered uniform nearly-black.

“Don’t kill him, Ken.” That’s Mukuro’s voice, distant and cool as if he were miles away instead of just a few feet. Ken doesn’t look up to meet the other’s steady gaze, just shakes his head so his teeth tear a little wider, drag another wave of blood from Chikusa’s veins and the faint whine of an exhale from Chikusa’s lips. It’s close enough to agreement that Mukuro laughs, and that’s the permission Ken needs.

He lets his hold go, pulls his head back so he can shake his hair back from his face, lick Chikusa’s blood off his lips while he tears straight through the shoulder seam of the other’s jacket and shirt at once. The fabric is weakened by the imprints of Ken’s teeth, rips almost without resistance so Ken can see the crescent curve of his bite imprinted clear and red against Chikusa’s skin. There’s motion under Ken’s bracing hold at Chikusa’s shoulder, a head turning in towards his wrist so lips drag against the inside of his arm. It could be intimate, in another setting, with someone else. Here it’s just friction, the faint warmth of breathing over his skin as Chikusa moves his head. Far more interesting is the angle of his throat, the implicit offer of skin for Ken’s teeth with the flutter of pulse that legitimizes the concern under Mukuro’s warning.

Ken is careful about his angle. From the tear of his teeth, the spray of blood that accompanies the motion, someone other than the three of them would be hard-pressed to see the consideration, but Chikusa’s breath catches in pain instead of mortal injury, and the blood that spills into Ken’s mouth lacks the life-pulse of a truly dangerous injury. It’s enough, still, the blood on his tongue and the capitulation written in every line of Chikusa’s body, enough that he’s growling, shaking against his hold on skin and bone so the other’s limp form drags across the rough surface of the floor.

“Careful,” Mukuro warns, but Ken isn’t truly listening to anything anymore, not even the steady lilt of Mukuro’s voice. He’s dragging Chikusa in closer, sinking his claws past cloth and skin into blood and muscle so he can drag the other’s body in nearer to him, close enough that he can shove Chikusa over onto his stomach before climbing atop him to straddle his unresisting hips. Ken’s weight pressing him into the floor forces a huffed exhale from Chikusa’s lungs, instinctive reaction to the angle, but he just turns his head so his lips are clear of the floor, blinks once over his unfocused gaze. Ken watches his eyes for a minute, their flat unconcern no shakier now than it is on any other day; then the blood dripping from Chikusa’s neck starts to pool on the ground, and that requires far more of Ken’s attention.

His hair catches at Chikusa’s throat as he dips his head, the end of a barrette scraping over the barcode printed onto Chikusa’s cheekbone. Then Ken has his lips pressed to the marks of his teeth in skin, is fitting his tongue to the divots, and this close he can feel the tiny reflexive jerk that ripples through Chikusa’s shoulders at the sensation. It’s scintillating, it lashes fire through his veins; he’s dropping his weight before he thinks about it, fitting his hips over Chikusa’s to grind against the other’s body. That’s better, that takes the rough edge off the anticipation spiking through him; then he gets a hand up under Chikusa’s shirt, rakes his nails in bloody stripes over the other’s skin, and the convulsive shudder in the body under him is  _perfect_.

He doesn’t realize he’s growling, half-laughing and half-purring into Chikusa’s torn shoulder. He doesn’t hear what Mukuro is saying, ignores the meaning in favor of paying attention to the way Chikusa goes taut under him, thrumming responsive to the other’s voice even more than to the drag of Ken’s fingernails. That’s approval in Mukuro’s voice, amusement and maybe the leading edge of appreciation, and when Ken lifts his head to lick at the tattoo on Chikusa’s skin Chikusa shivers, his eyelashes flutter in unprecedented reaction that for a moment stalls even the unthinking pattern of Ken’s hand across the other’s chest. They’re all still for a moment -- Chikusa’s breathing coming hard against the floor, Mukuro’s distant voice paused into silence, Ken hesitating in the midst of action. Then Chikusa opens his eyes, turns his chin up so he can fix Mukuro with that flat stare, and that’s the cue Ken needs to abandon his face, to tear open the back of Chikusa’s jacket to bare bruises over the curve of spine. His mouth fits into the soft angle of Chikusa’s shoulder, his teeth break a pair of neat puncture wounds into the smooth skin while he twists his fingers under Chikusa’s hips to fumble with the front of his pants. The shape of flushed resistance under his touch isn’t a surprise -- Mukuro is watching them, after all, and Ken learned a long time ago what Chikusa likes. As long as the glow of Mukuro’s eyes is focused on Chikusa, he’ll let Ken do anything he likes; it’s invariably Mukuro who reminds Ken to stop before Chikusa passes out, who will pull the blond off physically before Chikusa’s breathing gets too shallow and faint. But this isn’t that bad, this is hardly anything compared to their history, and Mukuro doesn’t say anything as Ken jerks the zipper on Chikusa’s pants down so he can shove the fabric down off the other’s hips. His nails catch at the sharp edge of hipbone, dig a point of blood into Chikusa’s skin, but the hitch in the other’s breathing is out-of-time to the pain, more of a prelude to the motion of his hips as he rocks himself down to grind roughly against the floor. It’s the most he’s moved this whole time, the most active he has yet been, and Ken is grinning sharp into Chikusa’s skin even before he lifts his hand to the other’s lips and shoves his middle and ring fingers into his mouth. His knuckles catch accidentally at Chikusa’s teeth, scrape briefly painful before Chikusa can get his mouth open wide enough for Ken to slick his fingers over the other’s tongue. It only takes a minute, the violence of his movement more effective for his ends than elegance; then he’s pulling his hand free, licking at Chikusa’s shoulder once more before he rocks back up over his knees.

From the higher vantage point it’s easier to see the tension starting to build in Chikusa’s shoulder, easier for Ken to turn his head and see Mukuro’s considering gaze lingering over both of them. There’s a flutter of heat low in Ken’s stomach, a faint echo of the first rush of borrowed warmth from Chikusa’s blood; with Mukuro’s eyes skimming over the blood at his lips and the tightness at the front of his jeans, Ken can start to understand why Chikusa is breathing harder, why his movement against the floor is becoming rhythmic and deliberate as he finds the pattern he needs.

The shift of Chikusa’s hips makes it easy for Ken to grab at his thigh, to angle him up to dig Chikusa against the floor so he can see what he’s doing as he pushes spit-splick fingers inside the other’s body. There’s the catch of friction, warmth flaring into heat that is probably painful, but Chikusa doesn’t protest that any more than he did the tear of teeth into his skin. He’s staring in Mukuro’s direction, though it’s impossible as it always is to tell whether those blank eyes are actually in focus on a subject or not. Ken doesn’t care; he can taste iron on his tongue, the lingering flavor of Chikusa’s blood clinging to the corner of his mouth so he can lap thoughtlessly at the taste while he thrusts his fingers in deeper, shoves Chikusa against the floor by the force of his motion. There’s the catch of breath, a flicker of a reaction in the shoulders under him; Ken growls again, wordless appreciation of the movement, twists his wrist and draws back before he angles in for another thrust. Chikusa’s not looking at him but he doesn’t have to be; Ken’s not looking at Chikusa’s face, either. He’s tracing the welts of not-quite broken skin from the pressure of his nails, the slow spill of blood from the crescents at Chikusa’s shoulder and neck, the submission inherent in the passive slump of his spine. By the time hus gaze makes it all the way down to the slide of his fingers he’s too impatient to give Chikusa any longer, too overheated to delay his own gratification further.

He lets Chikusa’s skin go, pushes the button of his own pants free and drags the zipper down one-handed as he slides his fingers free, brings his hand to his mouth to lick wet over his palm. He shoves his clothes off his hips, down halfway to his knees and out of the way while he fits one leg between Chikusa’s, pushes the other’s thighs farther apart so he can rest his weight between them. The slippery pull of his damp palm over his hard cock is enough, the best he can manage without actually thrusting into Chikusa’s mouth, and he lacks the patience for that. The lines of red-stained skin under him are too tempting, the heat under his pulse too demanding; he’s leaning in before he’s even lined himself up, sinking his teeth back into Chikusa’s shoulder and growling satisfaction before he’s even inside.

It takes a few false starts, instinctive thrusts too high so he slides over skin, but then he gets it right, the flushed head of his cock catches against Chikusa’s entrance, and he’s thrusting forward and groaning raw sound around the other’s skin. The friction is nearly overwhelming, right up at the edge of too much pressure and heat and sensation, enough that Ken’s vision goes hazy white as he pushes forward and into the other’s body. But Mukuro is watching them, and Chikusa is trembling under him like he might really be made of bone and blood instead of ice and steel, and Ken already knows that he’s terrible at restraint, even in the name of self-preservation. He bites harder, feels his teeth sinking in bone-deep, and when he starts to thrust in earnest it’s his hold at Chikusa’s shoulder that keeps the other steady more than the weight of Ken’s body atop him. He can taste Chikusa’s heartbeat hot on his tongue, can feel the shiver running down Chikusa’s spine in the taut pull of the other’s body around his cock, and Ken doesn’t care if it’s Mukuro’s eyes that are drawing most of that trembling reaction. He’s reaping the reward, after all, he’s the one who gets the tangible satisfaction of Chikusa’s body.

He doesn’t realize he’s purring pleasure, humming vibrations of instinctive delight into Chikusa’s skin; he’s too caught up in how much faster his heart is beating, how hot his skin is flushing and how the pressure is turning to promise with every forward thrust of his hips. What he  _does_  realize, in some very distant fringe of his attention, is how fast Chikusa is breathing, that the other’s inhales are coming fast enough that Ken can make out the sound of them as nearly a whimper over Chikusa’s usually-steady throat. It could be pain, it could be pleasure; it’s probably both. In any case it flutters Ken’s eyelids, draws a groan of anticipation from his lips, and he lets Chikusa’s shoulder go, turns his head to press his blood-stained mouth into the other’s neck. There’s tension under his lips, expectation and need drawing carelessly taut so Ken knows Chikusa’s close even before he hears Mukuro shift like he’s leaning in over his knees.

“Chikusa.” His voice is clear, soft and careful with the syllables, and Ken goes still as Mukuro speaks so the sound falls over the silence of Chikusa’s held breath. There’s a shudder that runs through bloody shoulders, Chikusa twists his face down to press his mouth to the floor, and Ken hisses in appreciation at the ripple of reaction around him as Chikusa chokes a muffled gasp and comes. It never takes any more effort than this, just Mukuro’s voice gentle and free of even the taste of an order, and Ken’s not about to complain. He likes the way Chikusa goes limp and quivery after, the glaze of satisfaction that turns his eyes dark and beautiful. Ken keeps his eyes open, stares at the unfocused pleasure written into Chikusa’s expression as the heat in him winds itself tight and focused, and when he groans “Kaki-pi” it’s as good a warning for his own orgasm as Mukuro’s voice was for Chikusa’s. His fingertips tingle into numbness, his body jerks into uncontrollable reflex, and his vision blanks out, even Chikusa’s eyes disappearing into white glow.

Ken barely pulls away once he can trust his arms to hold his weight again. He curls in sideways instead, dropping himself to the floor and dragging Chikusa back against his chest so he can trail his fingers through the drying blood and come across the other’s stomach. Chikusa lets him, like he always does, doesn’t do anything but breathe until Mukuro pushes to his feet. Then they both hesitate, Ken’s fingers stall and Chikusa’s inhales catch as all their joint attention fixes on the feet coming towards them.

Mukuro doesn’t quite kneel. He crouches down instead, low enough that Ken can see his face without craning his neck, can clearly make out the gentle affection in his smile. Chikusa is breathing harder, panting high and desperate and almost-whining in unspoken plea, and it’s not until Mukuro’s fingertips brush through the dark hair across his forehead that the very last of the tension drains out of Chikusa’s shoulders. Ken purrs satisfaction at the weight of Chikusa going truly limp, drags him in to fit flush against his chest, and Mukuro rises to his feet, and leaves them to each other.


End file.
